


a foreign land

by Signe (oxoniensis)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 10000-30000 words, Demons, First Time, Incest, M/M, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-24
Updated: 2009-11-24
Packaged: 2017-10-03 16:28:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oxoniensis/pseuds/Signe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He looks in the mirror and doesn't recognize himself. He's a foreign land.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a foreign land

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Незнакомец в зеркале](https://archiveofourown.org/works/966310) by [Elga](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elga/pseuds/Elga)



There's a low screened porch at the back of the house. Two ancient rockers and a yardsale lounge chair take up most of it, and there's a wrought iron stand by the door for them to scrape their boots, though no one ever does. The wood's warped and cracked, white paint faded to gray and mostly peeled off like the rest of the house, and it creaks and groans whenever there's the slightest change in the weather. Sam picks at flakes of paint idly until one catches under his fingernail, drawing blood from the quick. He winces and sucks his finger, irritable.

It's hot, and his tee-shirt clings to his armpits, damp and scratchy where the seam bites into his skin. He's grown three inches these last few months – grown skinny and always hungry. He's barefoot, and the wood's hot to the touch, even in the small patch of shade Sam's found.

Sam sleeps out on the porch most nights, bedroll placed to catch the last remnants of evening breeze. He easily tunes out the croaks and chirps of unfamiliar creatures – nothing ominous in them, just cicadas and bullfrogs in the woods out back, a comfortable part of living on the edge of town. He wakes up mornings to find a trail of salt around him – Dean, quiet and determined, always looking out for him whether Sam wants it or not. Especially when Sam doesn't want it.

*

Dad's away most of the summer, traveling. He picks up casual work sometimes, comes home with cash in his wallet and a less bleak look in his eyes, but mostly he's hunting. Sam hears him mention other hunters to Dean once or twice, but it doesn't sound like he's working with them much. Probably fought with them, and when Sam huffs in sympathy, it isn't for his dad.

Dean doesn't go on the hunts, and neither does Sam. He's been charged with working on the house – their dad made some deal with a guy he saved back in '88: work on the house and tidy up the front yard, and the rent's minimal. So Sam's gotten the job – he'd complained, said he didn't know a thing about it, but Dad had said it was time he learned. Dean had laughed and said he could go to the library and get a book on it, _pretend it's homework and then you'll like it_, but weekends he helps Sam, shows him how to use tools, the best and quickest ways of doing things. Dean acts like it's a pain in the ass, but Sam thinks he doesn't really mind, and Sam almost enjoys it, though he'd never admit to it.

Of course, Dean wants to go on the hunts and begs every time Dad comes home – Sam hears the arguments, _family business_ Dean says. But he's been left behind to look after Sam – who doesn't need it, he's old enough to be on his own – and make some money. He gets a job in construction, a new development the far side of Zwolle, but brings home more than he should. Sam opens his mouth to ask countless times, but there's a look in Dean's eyes tells him not to. They don't talk much these days, not about stuff that counts. Four years age difference seems to matter more than it used to.

*

Sam doesn't understand how you can care so much about someone – have wet dreams about them even, though that's a secret he's never telling – and still fight with them all the time. It's only gotten worse as they've gotten older, him and Dean, childish bickering progressing to cruel words that hurt more than either of them admit, Indian burns moving on to outright fights, words and fists flying hard and furious, leaving bruises and cuts as reminders. Afterwards, they trade wet towels and ice packs, still not speaking to each other.

Nothing seems to make sense any more.

*

He's out here tonight because of another fight. A stupid thing. It started out about who drank the last of the milk, and ended up with Sam screaming he couldn't wait to get out of here, out of this life. Dean had walked out of the kitchen and slammed the door behind him like he'd been beaten. Sam wasn't going to lie next to Dean all night, hearing his silence in the next bed. So he's out on the porch, no matter that it's threatening rain and the wind's heading this way and will bring it all in on him if it falls tonight. He'd rather be wet.

He sprays himself with _Off_. First night out here, he didn't think, and he'd gotten eaten alive by the mosquitos – he hasn't forgotten again.

There's a radio on, somewhere near, window open and music shared. He can hear the beat, bass rumbling low through his belly, making him restless and achy. He always feels that way lately, like his own body's fighting him, turning against him. He taps out the rhythm with his fingers on the wooden boards still swollen from the last rain – hopes it will let it all out, let him feel like himself again, not some stranger in his own skin.

He said _Christo_ in the mirror last week, staring at his lips as he formed the word, at his eyes as he repeated it. Watching to see if hazel turned black, but it didn't. It'd be easier if he were possessed, something fixable. He can't do anything about growing up.

He doesn't notice the music stopping – the rain's arrived, and it creates its own patter and rhythm, soft enough to be a mother singing lullabies. When he wakes, the wind's shifted, and the rain hasn't reached him – he slept well.

*

Sam does the shopping, mostly. It's better if he does – Dean gets nothing but junk – and he takes a strange pleasure in getting the best food he can on a small budget. He clips coupons, even though Dean mocks him for it.

There's a line at the store, only one register working today. There's a mother and three children behind him, and Sam feels sorry for her, trying to cope with them and her shopping. He helps her unload her shopping cart and she's too stressed to manage more than a cursory thanks, wiping the snotty nose of the baby in her arms and running after the oldest boy before he's out of the store and onto the road.

The woman in the line ahead of him turns around. "That was very kind of you," she says, and Sam can barely breathe. She's beautiful, and when she smiles at him, full deep smile like he's the only person in the store, his heart stutters and races.

After, he doesn't remember paying for the food, doesn't remember walking out the store, or walking back along Main Street. He remembers saying his name – she must have asked – but he doesn't know hers.

He can't remember quite what she looks like, but if anyone had asked he would have said she was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen.

The next day, he's forgotten her.

*

Dean warns him, but he doesn't listen. They'd been fighting again, so he'd been ignoring Dean, and it isn't until later, afterwards, that he remembers the warning.

*

They keep a few chickens in the back yard, in an old hutch they found when they moved in. It was full of pungent straw and a few dry rabbit droppings, the home of some child's pet. Sam cleaned it up and Dean mended the catch, and Sam keeps it fresh with new straw for nesting. It's the first time Sam remembers staying anywhere long enough to do something like this. He used to feed the birds Caleb kept, when their Dad dropped them off with him for a spell. He'd run out early in the morning, yard still damp with dew, and hunt down fresh eggs. Still warm sometimes, and they made the best breakfasts, sunny side up on thick toast.

These hens have been farmed, caged, and one has no feathers on its back when Dad brings it home, another is bald on the top of her head. They huddle in a corner at first, won't come out of the hutch that's just meant for them nights or laying, like they don't know what they're supposed to do, don't know they can fly. It takes time, but they learn, start to squawk and fuss and sometimes one will flap her way over the fence into the Rodriguez' yard next door. The girl who lives there will bring it back, hands tight over the bird's wings to stop it trying to fly away. She's too shy to say anything to Sam when he answers the nervous raps on the door. Eyes down under her bangs, she'll hold out her hands, and walk away like she wants to run, footsteps close together and awkward.

She wears boots whatever the weather, black boots and a sundress, even to church. She smells of warm tomatoes and sun, and speaks shrill Spanish with her mother, too fast for Sam to understand. Sam thinks her name is Eva.

He takes them a box of eggs sometimes, as a thank you and apology. And one time Mrs. Rodriguez calls them over the fence, tells them to come around – she's made paella, too much for her family, they must share it. Sam insists that Dean change first, clean up, and he grumbles but does. The food is good, hot and spicy and delicious, as much as they can eat and enough left over that she presses a Tupperware bowl full into their hands afterwards, but Sam feels lost sitting at a dinner table, prayer before the meal and family all talking around him. They talk in English for Dean and Sam's sake, the younger ones fluently, the grandparents slowly, but Sam still doesn't feel comfortable.

It's what he wants, and he can't wait to leave.

He and Dean have eggs on toast for breakfast every day for the whole summer. Sometimes scrambled, sometimes fried so they're still soft and runny, dark orange yokes flecked with pepper. Dean makes eggs just the way Sam likes them.

*

Dean warned him again, days ago, and Sam ignored him. He didn't know it was a warning, though, because Dean didn't tell him why or what, just gave him an order, and Sam was tired of taking orders from Dean.

"Sleep inside tonight, Sam," he'd insisted, and had even pulled Sam's bedroll off the porch and hidden it. It made Sam mad, almost enough to sleep out there anyway, comfort be damned, but he'd slept in his own bed, listened to Dean snoring and tossing in the hot still air for three nights. He'd muttered into his pillow, cursed Dean for every little noise he made, like he hadn't lived with them for years and slept through them all easily. Just this heat, it made everything harder, made the air still and noises sharper. So Sam had tossed a while, then pulled on shorts and sneakers, no sudden noises so Dean didn't wake, and went and sat out on the porch for a while. Not long, just enough to cool down, feel the outside air on his bare torso, let the muttered sounds of a Louisiana night soothe him.

He never saw her coming and doesn't remember anything after that, not until he wakes up here, slumped in the corner of a bare, dank room, hands tied behind his back and ankles wrapped around with rope. It's morning, dawn breaking through the dirty window across the room, and he doesn't remember the night.

*

He dozes most of the time. He doesn't mean to, he wants to fight; his dad would, and Dean, they'd fight, they'd get themselves out of this. And Sam's old enough now, shouldn't need rescuing like a little kid any more. But he finds himself watching a centipede crawling down the pale plaster wall, watches it loop back stupidly on itself and get nowhere, inching along in patterns that look entirely random. He despises it for being so useless, not even able to walk a straight line down a wall and get anywhere, palpably hates it, but when he looks away a moment, or closes his eyes a while, he's not sure which, and it's gone, he misses it. He lifts his head high as he can and peers at the cracks in the wall, looking for movement. Feels like he's lost something, and can't even bring himself to see how dumb that is.

He can't feel his hands or feet. He has moments when he wonders if he still has them, but at least he can see his feet, the toe he broke last summer slightly crooked, dirt under the nails because he keeps forgetting to cut them, wiry little hairs that have started growing on his big toes. Familiar. It's reassuring, that he recognizes his feet. He hopes his hands are still there.

*

He tries not to lick his lips – it'll only make them drier when the little bit of saliva he can still make dries on them. He's been thirsty before, long journeys taken suddenly with no time to make rest stops, sat in the back sullen and refusing to complain. Never like this though, his tongue feeling too big and fat in his mouth, his lips feeling like they're about to crack and nothing he can do about it.

*

She comes to him. After sunset. He remembers her then, in the line in the Roundup Grocery store, and again, later, passing her by on the corner of Sabine and East Oak – he'd noticed her hair first, long and dark and glossy, the blue-black of ravens' wings, and then she'd turned around and smiled so brilliantly. She's so incredibly beautiful, like a renaissance painting, flawless lines and vivid colors – smooth red lips and dark eyes. And that should have been warning enough, because that sort of beauty can't be real, and then he looks into her eyes, looks right into them, and he knows the beauty's an illusion. He's seen eyes like that before, on ghosts, on creatures just before Dean or his dad have shot them or sliced off their heads. Her look is almost blank, but if you stare long enough – and Sam does, he can't help it, can't move while she's looking at him – there's something underneath, something wrong. Like a glossy red apple that's full of maggots.

He thinks he should say something, ask her what she wants, who she is – do something, anything – but his tongue is heavy and won't move, and his head is lolling to one side and she sinks to her knees beside him.

When she leaves he watches her steps and her feet face the wrong way. Her feet are back to front, and he hadn't noticed.

*

It's gray, morning light again, sun not high enough to reach him yet, and though the room's warm still, he's cold. He's naked, though he doesn't remember how, and there's chain around his ankles now. He can still feel the phantom touch of rope, too numb to feel the chain. He doesn't feel like he's slept, feels tired, and all he wants is to be in a bed next to Dean, falling asleep to the rhythm of his snores.

He pissed himself in the night, dick squeezed down between his leg so he didn't make too much mess, and he's sitting in the dried up remnants of the puddle, and he's gonna shit himself too if he's left here much longer. He doesn't feel shame – he should, surely – just resignation.

When she comes in again, runs her hands over him and talks to him in a language he doesn't understand, something sibilant and strange, it's a relief. He can't see anything but her when she's around, can't think of anyone or anything else, forgets about leaving or Dean or who he is. He doesn't try to move, not even when she unchains his hands and moves his arms in front of him, lifting an arm up to her lips. He just sits there, watching her and the light glinting off her hair. He feels sleepy, but his eyes never waver from her.

The sun's left the room by the time she leaves, but it doesn't feel like any time has passed. He wishes she'd come back, make the time go faster again, but she doesn't. It's only later, when it's getting cold and he wants to wrap his arms around his legs that he realizes she's tied his arms up behind him again.

*

She doesn't come again. Dean does.

*

"Stupid little fucker," Dean says, "anyone would think all your growing's gone to your legs and none to your brain," though he's thumbing the side of Sam's face gently with one hand, and reaching behind to Sam's tied hands with the other, so maybe he doesn't hate Sam too much. Sam can't see his face, not that that would tell him anything anyway. Sometimes he can read it as plain as though Dean had written everything he was thinking on his forehead. Other times, times Dean won't look him in the eye, there's so much there and so conflicting and confusing that Sam can't make anything out of it. When he swears at Sam softly like this, words and tone at odds, these are times Sam can't read him at all.

"You gonna unchain my legs anytime soon?" he asks thickly, trying to make his tongue and mouth work properly, and Dean holds Sam's head carefully against his shoulder, hugging him wordlessly – and Sam thinks Dean's kissing him on the head, but it must be his imagination – before taking an ax out of his duffel and smashing the chain, one clean cut. He crouches down on his haunches and rubs Sam's hands for him – Sam hasn't realized how numb they were until Dean starts, because Sam can barely feel the touch until they suddenly start to hurt, blood pouring back in and making every nerve ending scream at him. He lets out a sound, not much of one, but Dean stops and pats him awkwardly on the shoulder.

"You good to stand up now?" he asks, and Sam nods but doesn't refuse the hand Dean stretches out. He lets Dean tie a shirt around his waist, but neither of them mention that he's naked.

It's strange being upright again, and Sam sways a moment like he's just got off a boat and doesn't have his land legs yet. Dean props him up without being obvious about it, is just there, still for a moment, not rushing them out, and Sam's grateful.

They step over her – it – on the way out. Her legs lie at an odd angle, and there are holes in her hands. "It's okay, Sammy, she's gone. That thing's just a shell, there's nothing left of it."

"How did you kill her?" Sam asks, more because he feels he should than because he wants to.

"Found her corpse – had to do all the research myself while you were sitting here," he points out, but it's a feeble rebuke at best, and he's still taking half of Sam's weight even though Sam's sure he can walk by himself. "Broke her legs above her ankles and drove nails through her fingers for good measure. Either should have done the job, but there's no harm in a bit of overkill, huh?" Dean smirks, and kicks the creature's body to one side. "I'll come back and get rid of that later – don't want nosy neighbors calling the cops."

"I'm okay. If you want to do it now," Sam says, though all he wants is to leave, to get as far away from that thing as he can.

"Nah. Not like anyone's gonna come in here anytime soon," Dean says and holds a door open for Sam, pushes him gently in the small of his back until he's walked outside a few more steps. Sam looks about him, uncurious and tired, just glad to breathe fresh air and see the moon. The house behind them is not unlike the one they're renting, only in far worse condition, the weeds high in the front, white dandelion seedheads and thistles and tall grass.

There are other houses nearby with lights at the windows – if he'd screamed, someone might have heard him.

He doesn't want to think about that.

*

It isn't until they're in the car that Sam notices the blood. He smells it first. Thinks it's on him, but he doesn't remember being hurt. He puzzles over it a minute, brain ticking over painfully slowly, until he thinks to look at Dean, and he sees the marks down his arm, rips and blood down the leg of his jeans, a gash on his jaw.

"You're hurt," he says, feebly stating the obvious.

"Nah, it's nothing."

"I could smell it," Sam says, and he's not even sure if he's making sense any more. Sitting down he's as light-headed as he was first standing up.

"Surprised you can smell anything over your own stench," Dean says, and turns the radio on.

*

"What was it?" he asks eventually, after he's showered and Dean's patched up the cut on his jaw – the other wounds were just scratches, Dean hadn't lied. They've settled down, lights out. He's sleeping inside, bed next to Dean's, no argument. He doesn't even want to argue, doesn't want to be far from Dean's side, not for a while. Doesn't even care if it's cowardly of him, just knows that he feels safer when he can hear Dean. Where he can talk to him and get an answer.

"A Churel," Dean says. "Likes 'em young and tasty, but I guess they'll go for young and scrawny if that's all they can get. They like to drain their victims, but lucky for you they do it slowly."

"You knew one was around?"

Dean shrugs. "Dad called, last week, told me to keep an eye out for it. He thought it might be heading this way."

Sam wants to scream, because Dean could have told him that, could have given him more than a command and no reason behind it. He isn't a child, he knows what's out there now, even though he'd rather not. He just can't get through to Dean, can't stop him being so over-protective.

He's just about asleep when Dean says it. "Shoulda told you," he says, and it's the nearest Sam'll get to what he wants to hear. It'll do.

*

He's helpless again, lying in bed and there's something open wide and dark above him. It's getting larger, it's watching him – Sam knows that, even though he can't see eyes – and it wants him. He's not tied down, but he can't move, not his arms or his legs or his mouth to scream. It leans over him, closer, closer, and Sam feels the cold seeping off it, feels it sinking into him, too cold to shiver. He's so rigid he thinks he might shatter into little pieces, and there's nothing there, nothing but the cold, dense air that he can't see through. There's nothing anywhere, and he's alone, and he screams to make a sound, to cut through the air. He screams and screams until he feels a hand over his mouth, warm.

Dean.

He bites the hand, and Dean lets go with a faint curse. "I'm 'wake now," Sam says, and it's just about true.

"Cold?" Dean asks, and Sam realizes he's shivering.

"Yes," he says. He isn't cold, and the night's humid, but it's easier to say he is.

Dean reaches over to his own bed. There's just enough light filtering through the flimsy curtains for Sam to see he's gathering up his own bedding. Sam should say something, but he doesn't. He's a coward.

Dean dumps all the bedding on top of Sam, roughly shaking it out straight, then nudges Sam. "Shove over," he says, and Sam obeys, turning over, his back to Dean. He doesn't give Dean much space though – there's more in front of him, and he could move – but he doesn't expect the consequences, Dean close up behind him, chest to Sam's back, arm resting on Sam's flank, holding him. Holding Dean on the bed or Sam in place, he's not sure which.

It's too hot, but it doesn't matter, it feels good, and Sam rocks back and forth a little, unaware until Dean mutters a _keep the fuck still_ in his ear.

And consequences build on consequences.

He feels the heat pool in his groin, feels it building up and he's getting hard, and it's the worst time this could possibly happen. He reaches down, not too slow and careful because he doesn't want to make Dean suspicious, and grips the bulge in his shorts. Squeezes his eyes tight and squeezes his dick and wills it away. He presses his legs together desperately, because he and Dean are too close for this to happen now, and Dean can't know, can't guess, but Sam can't help making a sound. A giveaway sound, and he bites his lip, but nothing's working to stop this and all he's aware of is the ache in his belly and the press of his dick in his hand and every point where Dean is touching him.

He tries to keep still, to grit his teeth and breathe slowly in and out, to make this fade away as if it never happened. He tries so hard to keep still, but his body wants to fall back into that rocking motion, wants some release. He can't help it, so once he's moving he tries to make it seems as if he's just shifting normally, finding a comfortable position.

Dean's hand is shifting, and Sam thinks he's going to move away, tired of his little brother fidgeting around. But his hand moves around Sam, moves down Sam's flank and along the sloping bone by the side of his belly. Pauses, and Sam's motionless again, barely even breathing, just shallow intakes that won't make any difference. Then Dean's hand slips under the elastic of Sam's shorts, fingers cool against the heat of Sam's skin, and he takes hold of Sam's cock. Sam's cock is in Dean's hand, and Sam's not sure if he can breathe now, rib cage too small to take the gasps of air he needs. He's hard and swelling still, and he knew it would feel different, someone else's hand, but he had no idea. He couldn't have guessed.

"I didn't know," he says, "I—"

"S'okay," Dean whispers. "I got you, Sammy," and he punctuates his words with long strokes.

Sam pushes back into Dean, no point in pretence now, and feels the heft of Dean's cock against his ass, ridiculous and magnificent. He can feel the rise and fall of Dean's rib cage against his spine, the warm stutter of breath on his neck each time Dean speaks.

"Dean," Sam says, and it's not even a whisper, maybe not even a word.

"Tell me what you like," Dean says. "Tell me what you need," and Sam's not sure he can talk when he's breathing this hard and fast and when his body's burning, and it's Dean doing this to him, Dean doing this for him.

"Like that?" Dean asks, and he's found the perfect rhythm, long strokes that reach from the root to the head of his cock, and Sam stutters something, nods, and Dean keeps doing it, just like that so he must have gotten the message. "I'm gonna make you come," he tells Sam, "and it's gonna feel so good, better than anything," and Sam wants to say it feels so good now he's not sure he can take anything more.

Sam turns his head into the pillow and closes his eyes. Just concentrates on the feel of Dean's hand and the words he's still muttering in Sam's ear, stupid stuff that shouldn't be making Sam hotter. He lifts his hand to his face, bites into his arm to feel something else, anything that will make this last longer, but Dean gets the wrong idea. He stops, moves back and Sam can fucking well feel his uncertainty, like it's a cloud in the air, so he pushes back into Dean, rubs his ass up against Dean's cock, and begs. "Please, Dean," he says, and Dean lets out his breath, a gasp as though he's not taken a single breath in the last minute, and starts again. Sam groans into his arm, and he's spurting into Dean's hand. He knows he's making hopeless moaning noises and he's rocking back and forth again, but he can't help it because this is the best he's ever felt in his entire life.

He feels limp after, hot and sated like he could sleep for a year, and he pulls Dean's hand up, around his body. Hold him there, and Dean's not moving away, not yet.

He's not sure how long it is – he might have dozed off, might even have slept a while – when he feels Dean moving away. And Sam's green, but he's not that green, he knows what's fair. And what he wants, too.

"What do you want me to do?" he offers, and he turns over, towards Dean. Dean won't look him in the eye, and Sam gets that, he does, but he wants to do this for Dean, wants to make him feel as good as Dean's made him feel.

"Shut up, Sam. Go to sleep."

Sam hates it when Dean suddenly goes bossy on him, and he's not going to let that happen now.

"No," he says, and reaches his hand out under the sheets, touches Dean. He finds the bottom of Dean's tee-shirt and slips his hand underneath, finds hot skin, and his dick twitches at the feel of it.

"Stop it, Sam," Dean says, but he's not convincing, so Sam feels for his waistband.

"Let me," he pleads.

"I don't need it," Dean says, and it feels like a confession, though Sam has no idea why.

"It's only fair," Sam says. "And—" and now it's time for him to confess, "And I want to."

Dean groans, and for a moment Sam thinks he's going to do this, and he's nervous, wants it to be right, but then—

"I came already, okay," Dean says, like he's ashamed, and turns his back to Sam. He doesn't go back to his own bed though, and Sam doesn't say anything that might send him there, because even though it's too hot and he's feeling gross now, sticky and uncomfortable, and space would be good, there's something about having Dean this close that is better than any degree of comfort.

*

There's a crackled mirror in the bathroom, but it's only for shaving, a little round mirror that is normal one side and swings around to magnify on the other. Sam stands on the side of the bath to get up high enough, long toes curling around the enamel, and stares at the mirror, the normal side. Just the middle of him showing, tiny waist, hip bones poking out, fuzz starting to grow up to his belly, but not there yet. Cock limp and lifeless, like it belongs to someone else.

Nothing different about him. He pokes at his cock, holds it up and feels it stir vaguely at the touch. Watches in the mirror as it swells and lifts. He doesn't need to do much, a few strokes, and it's all remembered touch that's making him hard. Dean's hand, the feel of Dean's cock in the crack of his ass. He turns around at the last minute and spurts into the bath, trickles of jizz running down the stained enamel, one messy gloop on his thigh.

He looks in the mirror again, and still doesn't recognize himself. He's a foreign land.

*

Dad comes back one surly morning, early, before the sun has climbed high enough to waken everyone. He slips in quiet, but Dean's out of bed at the creak of a door, knife in hand before Sam's gotten further than opening his eyes.

"Hey, boys," Dad says, and Sam remembers a time he'd have run up shouting _Daddy_. When nothing would have been better than his dad coming home and Sam jumping into his welcoming arms.

Now he just nods at him. "Want a coffee?" he offers, because it'll get him out of the room, into the kitchen where he can breath a moment, calm down and it's a better start than _Why didn't you come home when I nearly got killed?_. He wants to ask that – it's on the edge of his tongue to ask – but Dean's looking at him, warning glares, and Sam bites the words back. For now.

Dad's uninjured for once but tired, so he sleeps most of the day, waking up to check the place, check out them. Dean doesn't mention the Churel, so Sam doesn't either.

Dad's got work to do on his truck, a list of jobs that make Dean nod in understanding but that make no sense to Sam. Dean's off to work, and Dad doesn't need Sam to help, so once he's checked that the rent's paid – Dean saying _yes, Sir_ – and the work on the house coming along – Sam giving him a grunted _yes_ – he's off outside.

It doesn't matter that he's out front, only coming in for a cold beer and a sandwich mid-afternoon, doesn't make any difference that Sam barely has to see him, keeping busy out the back. Sam still feels his presence, can't ignore him, much as he'd like to.

It changes things, him coming back. Sam stops being angry at Dean, turns it off like it was never there, and snarls at his dad instead. He doesn't even want to, wants to welcome his dad and have family meals, civilized, but it doesn't work that way, not with the three of them. Dean glares at him constantly, so Sam just doesn't look at him. Dean gets tenser and tenser, caught in the middle playing peacemaker, but Sam doesn't care because it's his own fucking fault he won't stand up to Dad and say all the things he's thinking just as much as Sam.

*

Dean stays out late after work on Friday, something he never does when Dad's away. He comes home stinking of beer and cigarettes – Sam knows Dean doesn't smoke – and perfume, cheap nasty perfume that Sam can smell even with his face pressed into the pillow. He's been fucking a girl, it's obvious. Sam clenches his hands so tight his nails dig into his palms. He's angry – he's only just gotten off to sleep, and Dean's woken him up carelessly, swaggering in and making no effort to be quiet, and it's going to take Sam hours to get back to sleep. That's why he's angry.

*

It's a relief to everyone when Dad's up earlier than usual one morning, packing the truck.

"Got a lead on something," he says. On whatever killed their mother, Sam's sure, though Dad doesn't say. He doesn't need to – he has that look in his eye, an obsession, the look that'll lead to him being away for days or more and stumbling back drunk and angry because he's hit another dead end. Sam won't worry about that yet – he's just glad to be saying goodbye.

Dean doesn't ask or offer to go with him this time, just waves him off with Sam silent beside him.

*

Dean blows off work that day. "What d'you wanna do?" he asks Sam. "Anything, your choice," and Sam doesn't have to think.

"Let's go swimming," he says.

"What, the public pool? It'll be full of kids and pee." Dean reflects. "Though, yeah, could be some worthy milf action. And maybe some shy little cutie for you to practice your pick up lines. Bet you need the practice. Not bad thinking," he says admiringly.

"Yeah, Dean, that was exactly my plan," Sam says, practically rolling his eyes to the back of his head to make his point. "Because I can't think of _anything_ better than spending the day having to pretend I don't know you, and am definitely not related to you, just because you can't stop hitting on married women and you can't keep it in your pants."

"So where does little miss priggish want to go?"

Sam ignores the jibe. "We could ride over to Toledo Bend. There might even be a breeze out there, if we head round the far side."

"You don't know what you're missing. And I mean that, you really don't," Dean says, but he doesn't push it, and five minutes later they're throwing towels in the trunk of the Impala. Even this early and with the windows down it's hot, the speed of the car not enough to make the air cool though Dean's going a steady twenty over the speed limit as soon as they're out of Zwolle.

Sam stretches his legs out as much as he can and dozes off. He doesn't need comfort to sleep – just the motion and sound of the engine. He wakes up when Dean pulls off the road, the rough ground jolting him. He's glad to wake – he was dreaming about the Churel, dreaming Dean didn't come in time, no one came, and she was leaning over him, hungry looking and he couldn't move again.

He pops his spine and yawns. The car door creaks as he opens it, a tired sound. Sam leans against the car a moment, shades his eyes with one hand and looks out over the open expanse of water. It'd be easy to just run in and forget about everything for a few hours – he's sure that's Dean's intention – but he has to ask.

Dad didn't come home until ten days after Dean rescued him. "Did you call Dad? When I was missing?"

"You know there's no easy way of getting hold of him when he's on a hunt, Sam." Dean slams his door shut like he wishes he could shut Sam up that easily.

"Yeah, but did you try?" Sam pushes it, leaning on top of the car despite the heat of the metal against his bare arms.

"Why've you always gotta ask these things, huh? Why can't you just let it be?" Dean looks away, shakes his head as though Sam's a fly buzzing in his ears.

Sam waits.

Dean bites his lip and answers. "Yeah, I called around, found his motel, and left him a message. Asked him to call home, said you were missing." Dean's tone is flat, and Sam knows he's angry – at Dad, at Sam, at everyone maybe – but he won't show it. "What does it matter, Sam? I got you out, you're okay now."

"You got hurt. You should have had someone with you."

"Scratches, coupla bruises, big deal. I've been hurt way worse than that, and so've you. Stop being a girl – we don't need Dad to baby-sit us all the time."

Dean strides off towards the water, shedding all his clothes as he walks. Final word spoken, point made. His shoulders are tense, and Sam knows he doesn't need to say anything more right now – he could just whisper it, that would be good enough – but he does.

"Don't need it, but it'd be nice if he cared." He shouts it, not at Dean, at the sky, at God, at anything that will listen.

Dean doesn't shout back. He laughs – he always has been able to turn his moods around in seconds. "Feel better now you've gotten that out of your system?"

And, oddly, Sam does, at least until next time. It's still there, rankling under his skin, a painful mixture of hurt and anger and frustration, but it doesn't feel so huge. "Yeah," he admits reluctantly, and pulls his shirt off, dropping it on the ground.

He strips down to his ratty trunks – they're faded and almost too small, three summers old now, but they're good enough for here where there's no one else but Dean around – and runs in splashing.

The water's freezing, so he runs out fast as he can until it's deep enough to slow him down, then belly flops in the water, right under, long enough that the cold doesn't feel painful any more. He's glad he kept his trunks on, because he can feel his junk shrinking in the cold, like his balls are trying to find their way back inside him.

Dean's as predictable as usual, already underwater hoping to catch Sam's legs and drag him under, and the water's so murky Sam doesn't spot the tell-tale bubbles of water until it's too late and there's a hand around his thigh, pulling him down. He splutters and struggles, and they're twisting and turning under the water, breaking for air and going back down and Sam's lungs are burning but he's not going to give up first. Except this is Dean, and he's not going to give up either, so in the end Sam lets go and breaks for the surface. They're gasping side by side, and Dean's triumphant because he lasted longer.

Later, when they're running out of the water, Dean races ahead, and Sam just lets him. He doesn't mean to stare – he's seen Dean naked often enough, after all, it's nothing new, shouldn't be weird – but he can't help it. He watches the muscles in Dean's glutes, the slight bow-legged curve of his legs that Dean hates and Sam won't ever tease him about because Dean really, really hates it. He stares at the crease of Dean's ass, between his legs, where he can see the hint of dark shadow of his sack. And he can feel it, just like that night they don't talk about, the heat pooling inside him, and his dick's swelling, and Sam's wearing stupid too small trunks that won't cover anything.

Dean's back at the car already, cursing because he didn't bring beer – "How the fuck could I forget beer?" he asks – and Sam grabs a towel from the trunk as quickly as he can, and wonders when it had gotten so that even something as simple and normal as a day out at the lake could get so complicated.

 

*

It starts raining the next day, a solid sheet of rain that has Dean cursing as he heads out for work and Sam grateful that he doesn't need to leave the house. Dean bitches at him before leaving, pointing out all the work Sam's still got left to do, as though determined Sam should find the day as miserable as Dean is.

It's unbearable after an hour of painting, the windows closed against the rain and cheap paint fumes hanging heavy in the humid air. The fans rattle overhead, but they just mix the air up, don't do any real good. Sam's pits smell, even though he showered that morning and he thinks he put deodorant on, and he can feel the sweat trickling down his back. He thinks longingly of the lake, or even the municipal pool. And ice cubes, but they don't have a freezer or ice-maker.

He ends up in the back yard, nothing on but shorts and flip flops, soaked in seconds. He breathes in the rain, lets it wash over him, lets it wash away the frustrations of the day. The hens cluck at him from inside their coop where they've huddled for shelter, and he clucks back.

Back inside he pulls on a tee-shirt without drying off first, lets the water evaporate and cool him off as he works. He gets skirting board and doors painted, and a _good job, Sammy_ from Dean when he gets home.

They get take out that night, too much food for two but they eat it all anyway, burritos and hot and spicy tamales, fries and refried beans and Pepsi gulped down too fast, and they sit on the sofa seeing who can fart loudest afterwards. Dean's farts are smellier – they always are, and tonight he ate most of the beans – but Sam's are louder, long and booming. He gets one on Dean, jumping up and shoving his ass in Dean's face just in time to let it rip, and Dean curses and throws him to the floor, sits on his face and doesn't move until he's let one go right over Sam's nose, and Sam's squirming and gagging.

It's easy and comfortable, knee to knee, no talking, just shouting at the TV when the PCL is on, the Redbirds playing the Zephyrs, and pointing out all the errors in _Night of the Living Dead_ after.

It's stopped raining, and there's an evening breeze flowing in through all the open windows. It'll be hot again tomorrow, but for now the heat's soaked into the soil with the rain and the air's fresh and clean. The Churel is dead, and Sam's stopped feeling spooked by strange noises, but he still sleeps in the bed next to Dean's.

*

He'd forgotten it was Saturday, and Dean off work. That's how it happens, Dean walking in on him. He thought Dean was out.

He's got his pants around his ankles, and his dick out. He's hard – not for any particular reason, he'd just gotten hard pulling his briefs up earlier, and again just walking around, his stupid body – and he's got his ruler, a plastic one from his school bag, pressed into his pubes. He's stretching his dick out on it when the door opens and he spins around, dropping the ruler.

Dean roars out laughing, and Sam doesn't want to flush but he's standing there, bare-assed and dick going soft, just hanging out in front of him, the ruler lying on the carpet next to him, and there's no way Dean didn't notice it fall there, doesn't know exactly what Sam was doing. He pulls up his pants, briefs wrinkled up miserably inside them, doesn't even tuck his dick in properly and nearly catches himself on the zipper in his hurry to do it up. And all the while, Dean's just standing there, smirking, like it's the funniest thing in the world. Like Sam is just one big joke to him.

"Don't you ever knock?" Sam hisses once he's covered. "Fuck off."

Dean smirks even more and heads out, but turns around in the doorway. "It'll grow, you know," and Sam can't tell if he's trying to be reassuring in his jerkish way, or if he's just being patronizing. Neither's acceptable, so he picks up the nearest object, a hardback copy of _The Catcher in the Rye_ and throws it at Dean. He misses, and Dean snickers as he closes the door behind him.

The spine of the book has broken, and loose pages blow across the room in the draft from the door closing. They flutter to the floor like dead seagulls.

*

He doesn't remember dreaming this time, but he wakes up to Dean shaking him again.

"You gotta stop eating cheese at night," Dean says, and turns back to his own bed with a put upon sigh.

So Sam reaches out and stops him with a touch. And Dean climbs in beside him, just like that, no question asked, as if he'll do anything Sam needs.

Sam doesn't turn away this time. It didn't work last time – not that he even realized it was meant to work, that there was a reason for it before, not until afterwards, thinking about it, asking himself why and why then. So he faces Dean.

And Dean seems to take that to mean something. He doesn't move in closer, keeps inches apart under the sheets, hands by his side like Sam's are, but he looks at Sam as though he's trying to gauge something, after a reaction. Sam doesn't know what answer Dean sees other than Sam's shadowed face on the pillow, just knows that Dean's kissing him. A forehead touch first, the sort of kiss that he might have given Sam years ago, that Sam would have wiped off with an _eww_, but then he's trailing kisses down Sam's face, kissing him on the lips. Kissing him full on the lips and Sam's kissing back for a moment, startled.

But it's not right. Dean's kissing like a broken apology, cracked and not meant to be heard out loud. He's kissing like he doesn't mean to, like he doesn't even want to, just can't help it, and Sam can't take that. He pushes Dean off, furious. Hard enough force behind it that Dean's left hanging off the edge of the bed.

Sam swallows, takes a deep breath, because he doesn't want his voice to waver, doesn't want to seem weak in any way. Just wants Dean to hear he's angry, nothing else.

"No one's making you do this, Dean," he says. Then his mouth keeps opening, and it bubbles out, more than he wants to say, more than he means. "I'm not gonna be some pity fuck or fumble. Or what, a duty? Gotta give little Sammy whatever he needs, is that it? Huh? You can go do that to someone else, go and mess with their heads."

Dean's face contorts, anger mirrored back, and the hand on Sam's chest as Dean pushes off hurts more than it should. "Fuck you," he says, and lands on his feet. He marches out, though there's nowhere much to go, not in the middle of another rainstorm.

 

*

One rule for Sam, another for Dean. He feels mean and angry, bitter about it, sullen from lack of sleep. There's a pile of wet clothes at the foot of Dean's bed, soaking the rug dark. He stayed out all night, no matter that he'd kill Sam for doing the same, and now he's curled under the bedclothes. Sam catches the comforter and pulls it off viciously – gets a kick on the calf for it – and goes to shower.

*

Sam starts it, early one morning when Dean's still scrubbing sleep off his eyes. He looks smaller when he's less awake. Almost makes Sam feel bad trying this, hoping to catch him off guard. But he asks his questions anyway.

"You wouldn't understand." Said careless, like it's unimportant, like Sam's a child. It riles him, makes him want to shake words out of Dean, real ones.

"You gonna use that excuse our entire lives, whenever you don't wanna talk about something, you gonna whip out that lame old 'you won't understand' crap? What is it, hey, Dean?" He's up in Dean's face now, in his way, aware that Dean's trying to reach around him to grab his socks and get dressed, but not caring. "I'm too young, too dumb, too what?"

"Screw you and your attitude." Dean pushes him out of the way and picks up his socks.

"Yeah, because you're so much more mature than me, obviously."

Dean huffs and looks up him, frustrated face. "I'm always going to be older than you, Sam. Always. You're my duty, my—"

"Wow, well, isn't it lucky that I won't be around forever then, being some painful duty."

Dean's the other side of the room now, head against the wall like he wants to beat it. Shoulders sagging. "I didn't mean it like—"

"Like what? You didn't mean it to sound like you'd rather have some life that didn't involve having to take care of me all the time? Thing is, it doesn't matter what you meant it to sound like, Dean." Dean turns around, and Sam can look him in the eye now. "You're a shitty liar when you're pissed off." It's worth it, sometimes, getting Dean angry enough that Sam'll get the truth out of him, blurted confessions he doesn't meant to make.

"That so, hey. You really think that's so?"

"Worked this time, didn't it?"

"You want the truth? You really want the truth?"

Sam doesn't answer right away. He's scared to say yes, even though he knows he's going to. But he's scared anyway, wants to hold onto what he's got in case Dean's about to tear it all out from under him. Eventually, he nods, once, and then again more firmly, to back it up. "Yes."

He expects Dean to start talking, but he doesn't. He just moves towards Sam, long steps but he walks so slow the room seems bigger. Sam notices stupid things: a scratch down the middle of Dean's nose, the tan line on his forehead from wearing a hard hat, the white of his legs through a tear in his jeans.

Sam still waits for him to say something, even when he's so close he's pushing Sam into the wall, crowding him, too close to talk. It's obvious, what's going to happen, but Sam still doesn't believe it. Not until Dean leans in.

Except, last minute, he doesn't kiss Sam. It was in his eyes, he was going to, but he doesn't. He just leans against Sam, head on Sam's shoulder, almost like Sam's the older one.

"Maybe I'm not ready for the truth, huh, you ever think about that?" he says eventually, defiant and something that's close to anger but isn't. Sam recognizes it for what it is. He's scared. Dean's scared too, and he's not going to do anything.

Sam would, he wants to, but the moments are passing by and he's not moving and it shouldn't be this hard but it is. And then Dean's gone, awkward punch to his arm and he's out the room, into the bathroom and there's tuneless whistling over the sound of running water.

Sam slides down the wall and sits hunched on the floor.

*

They have the paper delivered. It's Sam's job to look out for anything suspicious, anything that could lead to a hunt, though Dean'll pick up the paper in the evening sometimes, make out he's after the sports pages or the comics, when really he's looking for hunts.

Dad's been gone five days, and Sam doesn't want to find anything, not without knowing when Dad'll be back. Dean's always too eager, wanting to set off and kill things, just the two of them, but if Sam's careful it doesn't need to happen.

So when he sees the second report in three days of a missing hitchhiker, both vanished on the same stretch of highway, he reads it carefully. It could be anything: coincidence; a human killer, evil but not the sort of evil they hunt; or it could even be nothing at all, people vanishing because they want to. Or it could be a woman in white or some other ghost preying on travelers. Sam doesn't know. But he pulls out the page, the whole sheet, screws it up and takes it outside to stuff in the bottom of the trash. Then he worries that Dean's more likely to notice a missing page than the whole newspaper, so he throws it all out.

When Dean lounges around after dinner, he doesn't notice the lack of a paper or ask about it, just kicks back in front of the TV and tells Sam to change the channel while he's passing. Trapper and Hawkeye ogle Nurse Margie Cutler, and so does Dean.

"Whatever it is, even if the answer is 'yes', it's 'no'," Frank says on air, and Dean and Sam both shout it out in unison.

Sam doesn't regret what he's done for a minute.

*

Sam's thumb is fat and swollen, the nail purpling and throbbing. He's never been as good as Dean or his dad at practical things – competent, yes, but not good like he is at schoolwork. He didn't want to admit to Dean that he'd missed a nail and hit his own thumb, swinging wide and hard, smashed it so painfully he'd had to sit down a minute, dizzy from the pain. So he's been hiding his hand, hoping Dean won't notice.

He manages to keep it out of view for a day, but Dean notices eventually, pushing beside him in the too-small bathroom to clean his teeth. Sam's forgotten his thumb for a moment, the ache temporarily eased by cold water, so his hand's resting on the sink in full view.

"You fucking little idiot," he says as he grabs Sam's wrist and looks at the nail. "When did you do this?"

"It's nothing," Sam says, because that's the stock answer.

"Yeah, but nothing can hurt like a bitch," Dean says, and he's reaching into his back pocket and pulling out his penknife. He flicks out a couple of blades, and rejects them.

"I don't think I'm at the amputation stage yet, Dean," Sam says, but Dean's heading out of the bathroom before he even gets to finish his sentence. He's back half a minute later, with a drill and drill bit.

"I'm gonna drill a hole in it, relieve the pressure," he says.

"No kidding? That what you got a drill in your hand for?"

"Shut up, smart ass, and hold still."

It only takes a minute, Dean steady and careful with the drill, and it does help. Dean's always been good at first aid, stitching up Dad, patching up all three of them sometimes.

"You could be a doctor, you know," Sam says suddenly. "Or a paramedic. You don't have to do all—this," and Sam opens his arms out wide to embrace their life, their messy little lives.

Dean ignores him. "Put ice on it if it starts to throb," he says, grabbing Sam's hand and holding it still to check his work.

"Don't you want something better?" and Sam doesn't care that he's pleading.

"What's better than saving people's lives?" Dean's wide-eyed and angry, finished with tending to Sam now, hands clenched into fists by his side. "What's better than finding the thing that killed Mom and getting rid of it so it can't kill anyone else? Come on, Sam, tell me?"

"_Anything_'s better than this," Sam says. _A job that won't get you killed_ is what he wants to say. It seems so simple and obvious to him, and he wonders if logic is the first thing people lose when they become adults.

*

They don't talk the rest of the day, pointedly, avoid being in the same room as much they can, and Sam throws his bedroll out on the porch again that night. It's easier to sleep without the constant rattle of Dean's anger in the room.

He doesn't sleep though. He remembers that night, the heat of Dean's body behind him, spilling sticky into Dean's hand, burning up with it, and he groans as his body reacts to the memory. He reaches into his shorts, feels the damp spot against his knuckles, and grips his cock. It doesn't feel so good though, and it isn't until he imagines it's Dean's hand, recreates the way Dean held him, that he comes. He leaves his hand there, slimy pool in his hand and on his shorts, feels it cooling down around his softening cock.

It's past midnight when there's a creak behind him. In the house, and the door opening, the wood of the door making a different sound to the wood of the floorboards. He hears Dean throw something down behind him and lie down, but he doesn't turn around.

Dean sleeps beside him, and in the morning they get up and Sam fetches eggs, and he makes the toast while Dean scrambles the eggs. And all the while Sam just wants to sink his face into Dean's shoulder, wants to hold him so tight his ribs creak with the strain, wants to tell Dean he loves him.

"Good eggs," he says instead, and then Dean leans over and ruffles his hair like Sam's a kid, and Sam wants to scream.

He leaves his breakfast unfinished and goes for a run, glad for once for the new length in his legs that lets him get far enough away in minutes. He runs down streets he doesn't know, uses the sun as a rough guide, and by the time he gets back, sweat-soaked and exhausted, Dean's gone to work.

*

Dean acts like nothing's changed, and it makes Sam mad. That Dean thinks he has to protect Sam even now, and it's bullshit.

So Sam calls him on it. Shoves him up against the wall – and it's a shock that he can, even if it's only because he caught Dean off-guard, that he's almost eye-level with Dean now – and presses into him, grinds his hips against Dean's.

"What the fuck?" Dean says, and that's before Sam's cupping his cock through his jeans, and isn't life a bitch, because Dean can deny all he wants but his body's telling a different story, hard press of his erection under Sam's hand. But even now, Dean's not going to do anything beyond leaning against the wall as though he's allowing Sam to hold him there – and yeah, he is – and glaring at Sam.

So Sam does. Reaches up, just a fraction, and kisses Dean, firm on the lips, no mistake what this is. It's daytime and daylight, no nighttime thing either or both of them can deny in the morning, because he's looking Dean in the eyes and Dean's staring back at him.

Body to body, and this isn't safe or sensible, but it's right. Stubble against Sam's chin, and it's nothing like the one time he kissed a girl, back in eighth grade, chaste little kisses and lips that tasted of strawberry chapstick; nothing like kissing anyone else could possibly be, because this is Dean, and Sam puts everything into it, trying to tell Dean all he needs to say through the press of his lips and the too-tight grasp of his hands.

"See, it doesn't have to be difficult," Sam says, and he needs Dean to see that this can be, that they can be Sam and Dean and have this, and the world won't crack apart if they do, if they take something they want, if they find this together.

"You're an idiot, Sammy. Of course it has to be difficult. It's the great cosmic rule," he says, wild and sloppy as though he's drunk.

"Okay, so, maybe it does. But we do hard stuff all the time. We're the frigging masters of it. We can do this."

Dean snorts, moves his head from side to side. Maybe shaking his head, no, maybe denial, but whichever it is, it doesn't matter because Sam can see he doesn't mean it. He stops moving when Sam clasps his face, just closes his eyes and slowly opens them. "Sammy," he groans, and he mashes his lips against Sam's, clumsy and it's terrible, both turning their heads the same way, noses hitting, until Dean pulls away laughing, takes hold of Sam's hands and moves them down. "Just stay still," he says, and this time he takes Sam's face in his hands, takes control, and it's everything it should be.

Dean's touch is possessive, and Sam doesn't flinch from it. Lets Dean open him up and gives back everything he can.

He's half-hard, his dick hanging full and heavy between his legs but it's not an insistent need, not yet, so he just keeps kissing Dean until he can't taste Dean any longer, just both of them, and even then he doesn't stop.

*

The house has been finished for a week and one day when they leave. Sam's just had time to imagine it as a home, bookshelves in the corner filled with books, photos on the wall, maybe even a fruitbowl on the kitchen counter. Then Dad comes home one day and uproots them the next, and Sam vows he's not going to spend the rest of his life doing this.

He takes the chickens to Mrs. Rodriguez, and she clucks over him like a mother hen herself, telling him she'll miss them. Eva's in the kitchen – Sam sees her through the open door – but she doesn't come out, still too shy to speak if she doesn't have to. He calls out goodbye to her though, and she waves, a little nervous motion of her hand.

"This fucking sucks," he mutters as he's throwing stuff in his duffel, careless of whether it's his or Dean's clothes he's packing. There's another week before school starts, so they'll be on the road until then, he guesses, living out of motels again, all three of them in one room if they're unlucky, and won't that just be fun.

"Yeah, Sam, it does," Dean says, and Sam's startled, expected a denial, a defence of their Dad. "What?" Dean asks, packing his Beretta carefully. "You think I like upping sticks every coupla months or less?"

"Then why--?" But Sam knows the answer, even if he can't bring himself to ask the question, why Dean's never left, and he's damned if he's going to feel guilty about it. It's Dean's decision, and if he's determined to stick around for Sam, well, suit himself.

Only, he's grateful too, and if he can't say that in so many words, he can say something, at least.

"It isn't all bad," he says. "This life, it isn't all bad, not all the time." And Dean smiles at him.

*

It doesn't end there.

Not yet.

Sam's going to leave one day, and Dean's going to fight it, and Sam can't see how it can ever end well. But for now they have this. Dad's off on hunts again, Sam back at school, but there are nights, just the two of them, when they're curled into each other's space, and Sam learns the weight of Dean's cock on his tongue, and the feel of Dean's mouth around his cock, and the momentary softness of Dean when he's boneless beside Sam. He doesn't understand, past, present or future, but it doesn't always matter, not when Dean's holding him tight against his chest and holding the night at bay.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Nova Berry as a Sweet Charity pinch-hit. Thanks to Kirsten Sea for the careful beta, a_fallen_sister for the Louisiana background, Cam for the final check for stray Briticisms, and Sam for hand-holding, bullying, audiencing and everything else! First published May 2008.


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